


Collection of pointless one shots

by Bloody_inspired_by_newtmas



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: AU, Drarry, M/M, Magic, actually you can read it, blowjobs probably, i don't care, i'm suffering, idk i haven't written any smut yet, muggle, please don't read, these are so shitty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-10-19 23:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10650153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloody_inspired_by_newtmas/pseuds/Bloody_inspired_by_newtmas
Summary: Honestly, some of these will be really crap and pointless. I really just write whatever comes to mind and then stop whenever I feel like it. Read it, don't read it. I don't really care.





	1. Hop on it instead

**Author's Note:**

> I'm American, it's late, and I really don't care if it's not in British English or whatever. If anyone really cares if I say color instead of colour or mix up the school grades, they can just not read this. Also, I was too lazy to write well so. Also, it kind of sucks because I was really just letting my fingers write whatever they wanted. WARNING: language (like a lot of it), m/m, etc.

Harry sat on the swing set in the shoddy park in Little Whinging. His cigarette, which had gone out hours ago, hung limply between his index and middle fingers, as if glaring at the fuck up who had placed it between his lips. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence for the orphan to blankly stare at the speckled sky for hours on end in the middle of the night during the winter. Breath fogging the air, Harry slowly felt the weight of the world leave him as he exhaled the poisonous carbon dioxide which, unfortunately, served a purpose in keeping him alive. It wasn't that Harry was necessarily suicidal--he wasn't--he really just hated life and could not have cared less if he stopped breathing one day for no apparent reason. Harry didn't want to die, but he certainly didn't want to live either.

 _'Tis the predicament of the disaster that is my life_ , Harry thought wryly. And really, when he thought about it, he did kind of have to laugh at how incredibly sad his life was. His parents, mugged and shot when he was around two years old, lifelessly watched their son from their graves in a cemetery which Harry had never visited in a town which Harry could not remember. His relatives, middle class suburban assholes who liked to pretend they were richer than they were, despised him for no reason other than his  _existence_ which seemed so sinfully offensive that it would be better for them if he died. His friends, Hermione and Ron, were always too high on some sort of drug that it never seemed to occur to them that Harry might actually feel like shit sometimes. He supposed they never felt like shit. They were never sober enough to feel like shit. He guessed that's why they were never sober. 

And those were just the significant people in his life. His job, retail work at a local pawn shop, felt more like an option in an ultimatum of  _either you can work this job, or you can dive off a cliff into a bed of spikes._ That wasn't even factoring in his boss, who always made Harry feel as if  _he_ were one of the objects the shop was pawning off on customers.  _"This is Harry. He's a hardworking boy. Sturdy hands for any work you want, if you know what I mean."_ Harry knew exactly what the man meant, and it made him feel even less like a person and more like the scum-on-the-bottom-of-the-shoe dog his relatives thought he was. Not that his feelings mattered to anyone. At school, before he dropped out of course, his classmates used to tell him that obviously his parents died because of him, and maybe he never should have been born at all. These types of comments would have been more effective if the students had had more than one brain cell and thought  _ah yes, we'll need better bullying techniques because a two-year-old kid could not possibly be responsible for his parents' murder, nor could he control the fact that his dad didn't wear a fucking condom._ But whatever. Harry opted to ignore that particular bit of slander. Other kinds he couldn't exactly ignore, simply because they were inevitable. His locker had the words "cocksucker" and "bumhole engineer" etched into its paint job. He personally thought the latter was rather creative, and he had to give credit where credit was due. He never found out who wrote the words, but he had practically memorized the handwriting. He could probably copy it exactly onto a sheet of paper, even two years later. He'd moved on from high school's childish taunts, blocking most of it out because it didn't really matter. It wasn't like he actually learned anything  _useful_ except how to take a beating without turning into a whimpering pussy. So yeah, Harry's life was pretty much shit. 

Well, that wasn't entirely true. Harry held onto hope as the last thread in the fraying rope of maybe-my-life-isn't-such-a-mistakeheld out. A shining beam of light stabbed through the dank cellar known as  _my sexuality and problems._ The shining beam of light had a name. Draco Malfoy. 

Draco Malfoy was, quite honestly, a ponce. A dickwad. The type of person who cared far too much about fashion but still couldn't tell the difference between a hat and his own arsehole. He was never particularly kind to Harry. He would approach him with comments such as, "Hey scarhead, shagging Granger yet? Oh wait, I forgot your dick bends the other way." Harry didn't mind exactly. His sexual preferences were well known; they were practically painted on the billboards alongside the usual bribes to  _call +1-800-fuck-yourself._ The comments Malfoy made really didn't upset Harry. What upset Harry was the stir in his pants every time he saw the boy. He was all blond-hair-grey-eyes beauty, with his luscious Malfoy locks brushed carefully carelessly to the side. His hairstyle labelled him as the kind of asshole who would wait a half an hour before responding to your text just so he wouldn't look desperate. It was a moot point really. Harry already knew the dickhead wasn't desperate. If he was desperate, he wouldn't have that thirsty ass pansy Pansy following him around like an addict suffering from withdrawal who had just found a fix. If he was desperate, he wouldn't have every teenager in Surrey--Harry included--practically taking off their pants every time they saw him. If he was desperate, he wouldn't be able to walk around like he was the shit and get away with it, especially in a neighborhood like Little Whinging.

So Draco Malfoy was the one reason why Harry's shitty life didn't suck anything quite as large as a cow's balls. Donkey's balls, maybe. Maybe even a goat's, if the donkey's were reserved for homeless people and convicts. Harry supposed maybe their lives sucked a little bit bigger balls than his did.

Well, he thought that before life decided that Harry's one ray of hope looked like a fucking golden toilet to take a giant shit on because of course,  _of course,_ Harry was not the only insane fucker out of his bed at 2 A.M. on a Tuesday in January staring at the sky like it was the  _How To Make Your Life Not Shitty 101_  manual. _Of course,_ the other insane fucker couldn't be some random suburbanite who had been laid off of work and was going through a midlife crisis and needed to rant to a 17-year-old about his relatable shitty life.  _Of course,_ the insane fucker couldn't be some thirsty housewife looking for some adventure on the crotch area of a 17-year-old's jeans.  _Of course,_ the insane fucker couldn't be some confused little kid who had awoken from a nightmare and thought it would be a really good idea to walk outside in the middle of the night.  _Of course,_ the insane fucker had to be Draco Fucking Malfoy strutting through the park like a pigeon who had gotten laid. _Of course,_ Draco Fucking Malfoy couldn't be stumbling in drunk with his hair a mess and eyes ringed with tired misery.  _Of course,_ Draco Fucking Malfoy couldn't be relaxed and done with life's shit like Harry was, with a burnt out cigarette and about a million and a half regrets about his life choices.  _Of course,_ Draco Fucking Malfoy had to be prim and composed as he always was, with an impeccable outfit adorning his thin-as-a-rail-straight-as-a-rod body that made Harry wonder if dicks tasted like regular skin or if they had a special flavor. He speculated that, even if dicks all tasted like the skin on his wrist or knee, Draco Fucking Malfoy's dick probably tasted like lime and charisma. 

"Those things will kill you, you know?" Draco Fucking Malfoy said when he saw the shit-looking Harry Potter perched limply on the swing set with a burnt out cigarette between his fingers. 

"So could an oncoming train. Or a rabid dog. Or a squirrel. One cigarette if hardly going to deprive them of the pleasure," Harry replied, bitterness spewing from his mouth like a second language. 

"You're not wrong."

"I know I'm not wrong. That's why I said it, dickhole."

Draco Fucking Malfoy laughed. He fucking laughed as if Harry had told a really good joke and he was going to repeat it to all of his posh acquaintances, "Yes, I suppose it would be." There was silence for a moment, and Harry really couldn't be bothered to break it. If God couldn't be bothered to break his neck and end his misery, why should he give a shit if someone broke the silence or not? Well, apparently Draco Fucking Malfoy gave a shit, "Nice night, isn't it?"

"If you don't mind freezing your tits off," Harry responded. It was true. It really was achingly cold outside, and Harry could feel his body screaming about what a giant pain in the ass he was by making it work extra hard to keep him alive.  _Don't waste your time with that,_ Harry told it. As usual, it disobeyed him. 

"It's my favorite pastime, actually."

"Then you need a hobby."

"Not as much as you need a life."

"Not as much as you need to hop off my dick."

"How about I hop on it instead?"

"That's cool by me."

"Nice."

"Nice."

And so it happened. Harry Potter hopped on Draco Fucking Malfoy's dick and life decidedly cleaned up the shit it dumped into that golden toilet. It really was wonderful. From that day forward, Harry Potter could not look at a swing set without thinking of the other thing he sat on that night. 


	2. Sunshine

Draco sat down with Harry at breakfast. He didn't eat anything, and he knew Harry would scold him for it, but he didn't care. He had coffee and a cigarette and that was all he needed. "These things could kill me one day," Draco said quietly, anticipating what he knew Harry would say. He also knew that Harry would then proceed to grab his hand, take the cigarette out of it, and put it between his lips. Harry was always one to give warnings, but never one to follow them. "Funny how things work out," Draco whispered, more to himself than anything.

If he was honest, Draco hated cigarettes. He hated the thought that someone could become so dependent upon something that the fact that it can destroy a person's respiratory system, a person's life support and that person still doesn't care. He hated the taste of cigarettes, and they felt as if they were melting chemicals into his tongue that would seep into his lungs and suffocate him. He hated the thinness of them between his fingers, so easy to slip out of a packet, but so difficult to put back. He hated the smell of cigarettes, feeling like he had just entered hell every time he walked through a cloud of cigarette smoke. It was simple really. Draco hated cigarettes. It's why he had never lit one. He hated everything about them, but he loved the metaphor they presented. He loved the control they offered. It was like holding a gun with no bullets up to his head.

He always brought his pack of metaphorical cancer when he visited Harry. He always offered them to the other boy, knowing full well that Harry would say yes. He always brought extra coffee so that he could get Harry to wake up, knowing ahead of time that the black haired boy would still be asleep. But most importantly to Harry, Draco always came. He always showed up, even when he had no obligation to. He always spent time with Harry, even when no one else would. They pitied Harry so much that they forgot him. Whenever the looked at him, they saw his disease. They saw the cancer. They saw the disability. They didn't see Harry. They didn't see the boy who loved comic books. They didn't see the boy who would draw while pretending to take notes. They didn't see the boy who loved talking about rainbows and unicorns, but would draw skeletons and vampires. They didn't see the boy who hid behind rock n roll music. They simply saw a fatal condition that confined Harry into a box of pity.

But Draco never saw Harry the way the rest of the world did. A girl at school gave Harry a candy bar from the snack machine when the hospital gave him the news that he had about six months to live. Draco, however, just looked at him and said, "I challenge you to do better." That became their thing. While everyone else looked at Harry sympathetically, always allowing him to do what he wanted and never bothering him, Draco would challenge him to do better. Their PE teacher always told Harry to sit out of the activity to avoid lung failure, but Draco would just stand beside him and say, "I challenge you to do better." It was Draco's way of order Harry not to leave him.

As Draco sat with Harry at breakfast, still not giving him those pitiful looks that he knew Harry hated, he smiled. "Look at that. I challenged you, and now you're better."

Harry didn't answer. Draco knew he wouldn't, but still he felt disappointed. He wanted reassurance that Harry was doing better. He wanted Harry to tell him he was doing better, that he was on a roller coaster that only goes up. He wanted Harry to be happy in the fact that he won.

But if Harry was happy with the outcome, it never showed. Draco sighed, shifting the cigarette in his mouth as he looked at his boyfriend. "Remember when I wanted us to just be friends?" At the time, Draco hadn't known about Harry's disease. He hadn't known that he would have limited time with him. To him, love felt like a forever thing. To him, it seemed that if hell itself rained down upon them, they would still be in love. Draco hadn't known that love could be so permanently temporary. He hadn't realized that love could grow unrequited once time decides to step in. He hadn't known that that day, sitting on a tiny little swing set with Harry, would be the last normal decision either of them would make. It was the last teenage mistake Draco would ever make. It was the last time Draco would ever be a teenager. The disease could do more than just kill; it could take life while you still live it. It could take innocence.

So, to Draco, telling Harry that they should just remain friends had been natural. He wasn't ready to come out. He wasn't ready to be openly gay. He wasn't ready to be in a relationship. He wasn't ready to be in love. "It's funny," Draco said, "at the time, I thought falling in love could kill a person. I didn't realize it could actually make them live longer."

The most solidifying part of their relationship, however, was not their love. Yes, Harry and Draco were and would always be in love, but it was fear of losing each other that drove them together. It was the fact that Harry was dying. It was the fact that Draco would lose himself when Harry died. It was the fact that they didn't believe in miracles. Fear was the reason Draco kissed Harry. Fear was the reason Draco took Harry's virginity. Fear was the reason Draco told Harry he loved him so quickly. Fear was the reason Draco wrote Harry's eulogy and read it to him. Fear was also the reason Draco now sat with Harry at breakfast.

He was afraid of forgetting. He was afraid that every day, people would pass by the gravestone and never realize the beautiful boy who lay just beneath it. He was afraid that the flowers by his head would dry up. He was afraid that the groundskeeper would not give proper respect to the teenager whose life was taken prematurely. He was afraid that he would move on. He was afraid that he would forget Harry. He was afraid that Harry would forget him.

But he knew, more solidly than he had known anything before, that he really and truly was the love of Harry's life.

He knelt down in front of the stone, pressing his forehead to the ground in attempt to give Harry a little kiss. Taking a deep, shaky breath in, Draco began to sing," You are my sunshine...my only sunshine," his voice faltered, crackly slightly from overwhelming sadness, "you make me happy when skies are gray. You'll never know, dear, how much I love you," he let out a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. Tears flowed steadily down his cheeks, but he did not dare lift his head from the ground, wanting to be as close to the boy beneath it as possible. The pain renewed inside of him as he recalled the smile he knew Harry would be giving him, the little quirk of his lips that would show him that Harry was alright. He knew the words Harry would say. He felt the kiss Harry would give. He spoke the question he knew Harry would never want him to voice, "Why did you take my sunshine away?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a Frerard version of this on Wattpad that I wrote when I was like 13, but I changed the names for this because I'm the author and I can do what I want.


End file.
